


Aiming for Minimalism

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 03:45:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3554840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU retelling of Series 8, starring the Doctor as a magician hoping to end his career on a high note and Clara as his new assistant/manager.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aiming for Minimalism

**Author's Note:**

> Includes mentions of past Danny/Clara, River/Doctor, Idris/Doctor, and Missy/Doctor, as well as the deaths of Danny and River. Also some implied sex. None of that happens on screen.

“I'm here to answer your advertisement,” Clara tells him. 

“Which one?” he asks. He's planning on revamping his entire act, but the first two things he needs are a manager and a primary stage assistant.

“Both,” she informs him: quite seriously, if the cross of her arms over her breasts is anything to go by. “Preferably the one where I get to be the boss.” She hands over her credentials and taps her foot. 

He raises an eyebrow at her (his best feature, if he may be so bold) but she doesn't flinch. Well, he has been looking to reinvent himself. “Come in,” he says stiffly. “Let's have a chat.” He gestures her into his study, dimly lit and ringed with bookshelves. Mostly non-fiction about his trade with the rest being classic literature. Possibly there is a pair of handcuffs once owned by Houdini serving as a bookend. “Do you have any questions for me, Ms. Oswald?” he begins while he skims her resume. He idly wishes that he wasn't wearing this moth-eaten old jumper, but he hadn't expected such a prompt response.

“Why do you want to hire someone new, now?” she asks bluntly.

He gives a dismissive wave of the hand. “Never too old to learn new tricks.”

“Last year they said you were thinking of retiring.” She doesn't actually accuse him of lying, but he hears it all the same. “You've had a successful, profitable, long-running act—longer than most magicians, in fact, to the point where you've almost become an institution. Why change that now?”

He hesitates. The real reason sounds silly, even to him. “I don't see very much managerial experience on your resume. How can I be sure that you'll be able to handle the scheduling, the resources, and the ego coaxing?” She taps the sub-heading which reads “Middle School Teacher.” He nods, satisfied. “Why do you want to work for me?” he asks. “Qualifications are suitable, if unconventional, but its a bit of a career jump.”

“My mum used to take me to see you when I was a girl.” It's the best type of lie, he recognizes, one that's the truth. “You never answered my question.”

Nor did you mine, he thinks. But she may as well know, if he's going to hire her, and he thinks he will. She's growing on him. Like lichen. Probably best he didn't say that aloud. “My career has had its ups and downs, but of late, things have...plateaued.” He draws in a breath. No use putting it off any further. “I've always wanted to go to Las Vegas.” Nice, mythic connotations, he thinks. 

“To perform?” she asks.

“I should have thought that was obvious from the context,” he snaps.

“Lots of things you can do in Vegas,” she teases. Is she...flirting? Proposing? 

He stands and turns away to face the window. “I thought a fresh set of eyes, a new vision for my act might push me over the top,” he explains as she walks over to join him. “Then I can retire happy. A last hurrah, if you will. Are you still interested?”

“Count me in,” she says with a grin. 

***

“Step one,” she tells him, “we plan a series of new illusions and put the band together.” 

“Sounds eminently reasonable,” he replies pleasantly. Yes, he thinks, he's made a good choice. 

They bounce ideas off of each other over whiskey and wine. They bicker playfully, which would be their equivalent of flirtation...except for the actual flirting. He thinks. He's just aware enough to know that he's probably missing a lot of it.

He talks through his illusions with her; she teases out exactly what sort of staff he's going to need. She's already got someone to do costumes & makeup and lights & sound. That should cover most of their basic needs. She skims through the stacks of resumes when a photograph catches her eye. “Look at her,” she exclaims.

“Awfully short and the face is too round,” he says critically. Then he looks at Clara, and back at the applicant, then at Clara again. “Ah,” he twigs at last. “Apart from you looking much angrier than she does, it's a striking resemblance.” She waits a beat for an apology, which he takes as an invitation to keep going. “Bit of makeup and the same dress, and you can hardly tell the difference.” 

“I'll just give her a call, then,” Clara says resignedly, and marks down Oswin's phone number. “What about this one?” Clara asks, thumbing through the next stack of applications. “John Frobisher, former public servant—having a mid-life crisis by the sound of things.”

The Doctor squints at the photograph. “More like an end-of-life crisis,” he scoffs. “He looks like a skeleton come back to haunt the living.”

“Have you looked at yourself lately?” Clara asks, holding up her compact. “He's your spitting image.” She isn't sure whether to be concerned that his default approach to everyone appears to be insults or pleased that it's not just her. “Anyway, it's given me an idea for an illusion.”

 

***

“Why 'Doctor?'” Clara asks. “Other than because James Smith is a rubbish name for a magician or that it makes you sound important.”

He shrugs—he hasn't had to think about his stage moniker in years. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he considers his words, face difficult to read. “For the children.”

“Seriously?” she asks, but she gets the sense that he isn't kidding.

“It's a title of knowledge, of power, of secrets,” he explains as she jots this down in case they decide to make it into a monologue at some point. “But also of trust.” The infinitesimal quirk of an eyebrow. “There are strange things out there, when you're small, as well you should know.”

“Cradle-robber,” she teases.

He looks at her blankly. “I just meant...” He holds out a flat hand at the level of his own head and lowers it. She tips her head to let him continue. So much for that bald attempt at flirtation, she thinks. Something subtler, perhaps? “A doctor walks in that world because of what he has learned, not because of his birth. Anyone could grow up to be a doctor and master the darkness.”

“Doctor Oswald has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?”

“Are you flirting with me? Because I'll have you know, I'm quite immune.” He tries to look aloof. “I'm not even much for hugging.” He gestures with his elbows to emphasize the jagged nature of his frame.

“We'll see about that,” Clara promises. 

He harrumphs quietly. “I've very sensitive skin. Very good for manipulating small objects.” Not so good for manipulative small people, she fills in. Which reminds her.

“Well, you were saying,” she says. She takes his arm—gently, by the sleeve, because she isn't heartless, sometimes to her surprise—and guides his hand up to his brow, then to the crown of her head. Her eyes twinkle as she looks up at him, wants to nuzzle against that arm, press feathered kisses to those fingers, but she doesn't. She can keep from falling in love—she owes him that much, doesn't she? 

***

He's a bit nervous about step two—he hasn't done a big, death-defying illusion like this in a few years. “You'll be fine,” Clara reassures him, moments before the cameras start to roll. 

“You're the boss,” he tells her. “And if I do get killed, it will certainly do a great deal for our publicity.” He forces a gallows half-smile. The cameraman holds up fingers: three, two, one. “The Orient Express has always been associated with romance, adventure, mystery...death.” he concludes after a melodramatic pause. “Today, I will be bound and placed into a locked coffin. That coffin will then be placed on the rails of this train.”

“He'll then have exactly 66 seconds to break out of the coffin before the train smashes into him,” Clara continues with a strange glee.

“66 seconds?” the Doctor asks, face paling with practiced ease. “That doesn't seem like very much time at all.” He checks his watch. “Maybe I'll just do a bit of sleight-of-hand,” he offers, working his way toward the passenger compartments, slowly at first, then in an awkward run. 

Clara turns back to the camera, rolling her eyes. “I'll try and talk some sense into him,” she says, setting determinedly off after him. 

She lets herself indulge in the pleasure of watching him work in the gorgeously retro interior of the train. Just like when I was a kid, she thinks. Well, except for the cocktails and the singer doing jazzy covers of Queen hits, she amends. His hands move fluidly as he cuts decks of cards and vanishes small items, his bluster providing the only jagged edges of the performance. She almost finds herself mesmerized, despite knowing where to look and when. Just for a moment, she lets herself go, and abandons herself to the simple pleasure of watching. 

Later, once they've gotten enough footage to make up the half-hour, Clara signals to the Doctor, who produces a deck of cards and a pen from an inner pocket. He turns to a young woman and fans the deck. “If you would please select a card and write your name on it?” The camera zooms in on the words “Maisie Pitt,” inked across the eight of hearts.

“There you are!” Clara says, laying her hands on the Doctor's arm.

“I'm in the middle of a card trick,” he complains. He likes to think that the giving in is an act on his part, but she knows better.

“Finish it later,” she insists.

“Yes, boss,” he mutters, just loud enough for the cameras to hear. He flashes the signed card and tucks it into an inside pocket as Clara leads him away. The camera follows them as she helps him into a strait jacket.

“Tight enough?” she asks, eyes a-twinkle. He nods, and she tugs on the straps again. He folds himself into the coffin and she shuts the lid with an ominous thump. She starts her patter up, describing what will happen as he worms his way out of the jacket and triggers the switch which drops him out the bottom of the coffin and into a hidden compartment in the floor of the train. The whole process takes about a minute, and then two burly gentlemen heft the coffin and take it out to the tracks. 

Clara grins, and dons an engineer's cap. “Well, Doctor, you've got sixty-six seconds,” she releases the brakes, “starting now!” She slides the throttle to full, and the train thunders to life. Other cameras zoom in on the coffin. “Any time now, Doctor,” she says, a note of worry in her voice. Twenty, ten, five, and the train smashes the wooden box to splinters. “Oh my god!” she cries, throwing the brake, and the cameraman follows her outside. Just as they knew he would, she thinks, keeping the grin from her horrified face. 

“Doctor?” she calls as they reach the remains of the coffin. “Doctor?” She sifts through the broken pieces of wood, but the only trace of him is an empty strait jacket. The passengers have crowded around, emptying the train. “Well, a mostly empty strait jacket.” Clara notes, stooping and reaching inside to produce a torn playing card. “Does this look familiar to anyone?” she asks, and a young blonde gasps.

“That's my card!” 

“No,” the Doctor shouts. Clara turns with the rest of the crowd to the top of the train, where, hot damn, the Doctor is cutting a fine silhouette. “That is half your card,” he explains, producing the other half as Clara hopes desperately that nobody is watching her lick her lips. He executes a tidy bow, and thanks the crowd.

***

“And we're going to need a booking agent,” Clara asserts, “now that people have seen 'Mummy on the Orient Express' and requests are starting to come in.” They've already made offers to Saibra, a costume/makeup artist more than good enough for what they have in mind, and a mysterious young man going by Psi to handle their lights and sound. Clara isn't sure that he doesn't actually have a computer installed in his brain, but that's his business.

“I take it you have someone in mind?” he asks, pouring himself a finger of whisky. Clara tosses him a resume, and he adds another finger. “Not her.”

“Why the hell not?” Clara asks, irked. “You've barely looked at her C.V. You certainly haven't looked at the C.V.s of the competition, because if you had, you would know that she is the only one whom I remotely trust to take us where we need to go.”

He swirls the whisky, forcing his forearm, wrist, hand, fingers to move slowly, deliberately. Hoping it translates to his words. “Idris von Hauser and I have history together.” He bites out the words like the air is a crisp apple.

Clara's eyes go wide—wider, really. “Oh my god,” she says into her fingers. “You used to shag, didn't you?” He makes a noncommittal noise which she interprets as an agreement. “Look, we can be professionals about this. I'll do all the talking to her if you like, but she's by far the best option on the market.”

Stony silence. Whisky and embarrassment burn together. “Very well.” She is right, he knows. He knows her well enough to trust her professional judgment; he knows himself well enough to be aware that he would find it difficult to refuse her. Seems to be making a—

She snaps her fingers in front of his face, severing his train of thought. “Are there any other skeletons in your closet that I need to know about?”

“No,” he replies tersely, sinking back into his drink as she makes the arrangements with Idris. 

***

Clara steps into the blue cupboard, poking her face, left hand, and right foot through the appropriate holes in the front as the Doctor strides over elegantly to pick up a blade from the table. “This won't hurt a bit,” he says as he shoves it into the side of the box rather casually. "She's fine, aren't you?"

“Speak for me again and I'll detach something," Clara deadpans, and the crowd roars. "Stings a little,” Clara quips, her visible body parts flinching, and the audience laughs. “Go on then, might as well do the other one.” The banter has definitely become a selling point, and she can hear the chuckles.

“Might as well,” he agrees, circling behind her. “Finish what you start.” He slides the other blade home, making it look like work. The rest of the first phase goes as you expect: the top half of the box slides to one side, then to the other, then back home to reveal an uninjured woman. The audience applauds politely. “You don't have to do that,” the Doctor hollers at them. “Stop cheering, you pudding brains. So I cut a woman in half and put her back together again. That's old hat.” He draws himself up as if disappointed in their low critical standards; the audience murmurs. “Clara, back in the box.”

“But--” she protests.

“No buts: back in the box.” 

“Rude,” she tells him, but gets back into the magic cupboard anyway. Oswin's right foot replaces hers as she tucks herself into the surprisingly roomy top half of the cupboard.

“Many animals, such as lizards, are able to regrow lost body parts,” he announces. “Some creatures, such as starfish, are even able to regrow two new organisms from one being cut in half: that's basic science. This,” he proclaims, “is magic.” Turning, he snatches up the blades and slides them home, faster this time. The top of the box slides left and right and back again. He spins the cupboard around, pulling free the blades as he does. The door opens to reveal, for all intents and purposes, two Claras. 

“Doctor,” they chorus, “what have you done now?” Their exaggerated frustration earns them a roar of laughter, which swells further as they chase the Doctor into the cupboard and brandish the blades meaningfully. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Doctor is quite right. A magician cutting his assistant in half is old hat. The assistant cutting the magician in half, now...”

“I really don't think you will,” he tells them, just as they push the blades into the sides of the box. Left, right, home, and the Doctor opens the door. Well, the Doctors open the door. 

“Well, this will never do,” they say in unison. “I can barely stand one of me.” They wave the four of them into a huddle. 

“It's settled, then,” they conclude after a moment's hushed whispering, and file into the box. Of its own volition, the box spins in a circle. Completing its circuit, the door opens to reveal one Doctor, and one Clara. “Thank you,” they shout. “We call it... Regeneration!”

***

They go out for dinner after the first time they perform Regeneration, doubles and originals, to celebrate. “Gets awfully cozy in that box,” Clara teases.

“Are you two dating?” Oswin asks her. “It is a bit snogbox in there.”

Clara blinks. “Why? Are you and John?”

“I've got a wife and two children,” John informs them politely.

“Me too,” Oswin says excitedly, and just like that, he's pulling out pictures from his wallet, and she's got up a video of Rebecca's first steps on her phone.

Clara sags back in her chair, brow set, and turns to the Doctor for relief. “Please tell me you aren't going to start regaling me with stories of changing nappies.”

His face darkens. “No.”

“Sorry, didn't realize it was going to be such a touchy subject.” She hadn't realized it, but her tone has gone confrontational. “I mean, I know you used to date. Thought it was a reasonable possibility,” she huffs.

“That was a long time ago,” he allows. 

“Never too late to start again,” she says, more to herself than to him. She can do this. She is allowed this. She deserves this.

“I've made many mistakes, Clara,” he cautions her, even as he leans imperceptibly towards her. 

“Haven't we all?” she asks, and leans over to kiss him. 

To her immense surprise and gratification, he accepts the kiss. John breaks off in the middle of an anecdote about taking his daughter to visit universities to gape. Oswin just smirks, holds out her hand, and accepts the ten quid. “Did you seriously have a bet on?” Clara asks, too giddy to be truly exasperated.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” Oswin says through a grin that Clara finds she can't quite trust, mostly because she's seen it on her own face once too often.

“You know,” she replies, lounging back in her chair, “I don't even care.” The Doctor favors her with a reserved smile, which she counts as a moment of bliss for him. “Hang on,” she says. “Are we dating?”

“No,” he says. “We haven't gone on a date yet.” Bloody literal-minded bastard nearly gave her a heart-attack, Clara thinks, and pierces him with a glare. He fidgets in his seat. “Would you like to?”

“Sure,” Clara decides. A few seconds pass. “Did you have any ideas?”

“Would you want to rob a bank?” 

“Bit Bonnie and Clyde, don't you think?” Clara asks, nose wrinkling adorably. He supposes he can think things like that, now.

“I meant as another televised illusion,” he explains hurriedly. “But it would make for some date.” In all fairness, he tells himself, he's just been kissed by a woman half his age. Brain isn't receiving very much bloodflow.

“Have you tried?” Clara asks, genuinely interested. “Man of mystery and all that.” He gives her his most impenetrable smile. “Well, don't rob any without me.” He leans forward and clasps her hands.

“Never.”

***

Even with Idris's considerable talents, it's taken them weeks of calling to find a bank willing to cooperate. That's given them more time to hone their stage show and take guesses at the basics of, well, robbing a bank. 

At last, however, First London responds, which meant it was time for the show.

“Arthur Conan Doyle once wrote that 'when a doctor goes wrong, he is the first of criminals,'” Clara informs the television audience. 

“And we're going to be very, very bad.” The Doctor adds, looking surprisingly sharp with a black hoodie under his usual coat. “2 million pounds of bad, to be precise.” 

“Because the First Bank of London has agreed to let us try to steal a shipment of gold bullion that they've just received, valued at 2 million.” She grins wickedly. 

“And with any luck, we'll be ten thousand pounds of good,” the Doctor recites. He can't wait to get to work, but they've got to follow the script. “That's because First London has agreed to donate that sum to a children's hospital if we succeed.” 

“When we succeed,” Clara corrects him. “And that's why we call this illusion 'Robin Hood.'”

***

It takes all of them: Psi to hack the security systems, Saibra to fake their credentials to get her onto the bank premises, Idris's impossible grasp of planning to keep everything going smoothly, and John and Oswin to stage a diversionary break-in. 

As for her and the Doctor... 

“The vault is filled with inert gases to prevent the risk of fires,” Idris explains. “They use robots to bring out the items from inside.”

“In other words?” Clara asks.

“How long can you hold your breath?” the Doctor asks grimly. 

“Remind me why it has to be me going in?” she asks once they are actually inside the bank, next to the vault. The Doctor indicates the tiny airshaft with an eyebrow. She mutters something about a a stick insect under her breath. Psi's worked them up a device hidden in a bracelet which will let them activate all of the robots at once...but it has a limited range. Very limited. So Clara crawls, trying to ignore the stars at the edge of her vision. She stretches her arms forward and pushes the button on the bracelet just before she blacks out.

She wakes up again on top of the Doctor. “Not that I mind, but?”

“You passed out,” he says quietly, the wind knocked out of him. “I pulled you free. By your ankles.” They fight their way to a standing position. “Don't look so surprised—you were the one who called me a stick insect. Come on, we've got to go.”

“Did you look up my skirt?” Clara asks as they run, her legs a bit sore from the yanking. At least she'd let Saibra talk her out of the heels.

“Is this really the best time?”

“I'm just saying, you really should have,” she adds breathlessly as they follow an army of gold-toting robots to freedom, a world of innuendo in the lilt of her voice. Across the bank, their body doubles are starting a just-clumsy-enough robbery of their own. She chuckles as he misses a step, breaking his otherwise fluid stride.

Clara grins as her minions load the armored car with their ill-gotten loot. Technically, the bank didn't give them permission to steal the Brinks truck, but what the hell? You only live once. They pull uniform jumpsuits on over their fancy duds, and drive to freedom.

***

“You still owe me that date, Mr. Smith,” Clara teases him as they walk off the dais at St. John's Children's Hospital, hands wrapped comfortably around his arm. 

“We did rob a bank,” he points out. 

“Rubbish,” she says. “Food. Drinks. Show. Long walk in the park. Date.”

“Bossy,” he teases.

“That always was how you liked us, wasn't it?” a new voice interrupts. Its owner is a faintly deranged-looking woman in a dark purple skirt suit. “First me, then poor River, and now her.”

“Excuse me?” Clara asks. “Who the hell are you?” she demands, hoping there aren't too many tots in earshot.

“Call me the Mistress,” she says with a syrupy grin.

“Former partner,” the Doctor grunts.

“In every sense of the word.”

“Current rival,” he adds brusquely, ignoring her. “Egomaniacal, needy, game-player.”

“You can see why we got on so well,” the Mistress baits him. “Still would,” she adds with a hint of longing in her voice.

“Mustn't keep the children waiting,” the Doctor says, slathering on the faux politeness as he tugs Clara forward.

“Let's part as friends, then,” the Mistress offers, spreading her arms for a hug. Clara glances to the Doctor for advice. He shrugs as if to say 'she probably won't snap your neck.' Before she can engage the older woman or walk away, the Mistress's arms are about her. “Don't let him lie to you,” she whispers, so low only Clara can hear it. Sultry lips press against Clara's ear as if tasting her. Just like that, she is gone.

“Daft old bird,” he mutters, but a proper tension underlies their banter as they perform for the patients.

***

“What did you mean, former partner?” Clara asks once she's dragged him to her flat. (“And before our first date, no less,” he'd joked half-heartedly. “Shut it,” she'd told him.)

“We were a double act.”

“And you shagged.”

“Briefly.” he admits. “And long ago. Clash of egos. None of it lasted. She's never gotten over me; I have gotten over her.”

“You said,” she shoves him, somewhat more stiffly than playfully, “that you didn't have any more skeletons in your closet.” Don't let him lie to you, the words echo behind her.

“That you needed to know about,” he reminds her of her exact words. 

“So I didn't need to know that you had a professional rival?”

“I didn't think it was likely that you would want to hire her!” He sags against a set of shelves. His eyes instinctively move away from her smouldering pupils, lighting on a picture with one familiar face. “Friend of yours?” he asks. “Not exactly a family resemblance.”

She sighs, relents, fetches a bottle of red and two mismatched glasses from the kitchen. “Neither one of us has been very honest with the other, I expect.”

“Comes with the career.” He tries a feeble smile. 

“But it shouldn't come with the relationship,” she counters, pouring them each a healthy glass. “Drink up; I expect it'll be a long night.” They empty their glasses in silence.

He sits warily, taking a gulp as Clara nods for him to continue. “There isn't much more to tell about her,” he manages. 

“But?”

“I was married once before.” He produces her photograph from his wallet. “Professor River Song.”

“Did she finally realize she was too pretty for you?” She blushes fit to match her drink. “I'm sorry.”

“If you must know, I wore a much younger man's face then.” His brows knit with ache. “She's dead.”

“I'm sorry,” Clara echoes hollowly. 

“Freak accident,” he explains. “She was doing research when the library caught fire. Sprinklers didn't engage.”

“Couldn't get out?” Clara fills in, when he can't continue.

“She got out six times,” he says at last. “The only one she couldn't save was herself.” Clara cups her hands around his. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. They drain the rest of the bottle and open another, passing it back and forth until they are ready to continue. At some point, they move to her loveseat, drinking in each other's warmth. “I suppose its my turn,” she says, replacing an interminable silence with a warm one.

“The fellow in the photograph?” She nods.

“Danny. We were coworkers, had been dating for about a year,” she begins, haltingly. “Been making noises about getting married, even.”

“And?” he asks, surprisingly gently.

“Hit by a car. While we were on the phone.” She can feel herself beginning to break down. “I was going-- I was going to tell him--” she takes a deep breath. “I was pregnant. Miscarried a few weeks later.” He squeezes her comfortingly, guessing that just now isn't the right time for a smart quip. “I couldn't go back to work after that—I tried, but...” she shakes her head. “My gran suggested a change of surroundings.”

“So here you are,” the Doctor intuits.

“Here we are.” she confirms.

***

They wake up the next morning, complete messes, arms cramped, flecked with drool, badly hungover. Clara immediately assumes the worst (best?) before realizing that they're still fully dressed. “Ugh,” she says, then regrets it. It hurts to speak, to think, to open her eyes. 

“Shower?” he inquires.

She nods, and takes his hand. 

It isn't sexy at all, as she scrubs off last night's makeup and he tries to boil his head into wakefulness. A very distant part of her mind does observe that he's quite the fox for being old enough to be her father, but the parts of her mind that want to do something about this aren't awake yet, so she settles for gently taking her loofah to his back.

He raids her pantry to make breakfast while she grabs pen and paper. She sets to scribbling and sketching, barely tasting the French toast with jam until she's on her second piece and the notepad is covered with black marks. “It's very good,” she apologizes. “Thank you.” He takes her half-empty mug and refills it with strong dark coffee; when had she drunk that?

“You're welcome.” He allows himself a small smile. “Not every day I get a pretty woman complimenting my cooking.” She suddenly realizes that she's wearing nothing but a dingy bathrobe: no makeup, hair damp and uncombed, probably with bags under her eyes given how late they were up. Has he even noticed? “What have you got for me, my Clara?” he asks, nodding toward the paper. My Clara, she thinks. That's new, and she thinks she likes it.

“A new illusion, my dear Doctor,” and she definitely likes the sound of that. So does he, by the look of him. “And catharis.”

***

“Ladies and gentlemen, many of you are familiar with the story of Orpheus,” Clara opens. “A singer so talented that he charmed his way into the underworld to bring back his lover.”

“But there was a catch—Orpheus had to bring her all the way to the surface before turning to look at her,” the Doctor continues.

“Most people think Orpheus failed, because he looked back just before his lover reached the sunlight. But in doing so, they forget his incredible triumph: his ability to say goodbye to someone he loved.” Clara's voice cuts out, raw with sudden emotion.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is dedicated to those we have lost; we call it 'Going to Hell.' He turns to Clara, and now it is his turn for his voice to trail off. “Time to see what we are made of, you and I.” 

An immense contraption rolls onto the stage. “The Doctor and I will be handcuffed and placed in strait jackets. We will then be shackled by our ankles and dangled upside down from the top of the tower.”

“We will then descend at a controlled rate to the bottom.”

“And that's when the flames will turn on.” On cue, the jets give a burst of heat and light. “Slowly at first, but we'll need to both be free by then to press the releases which will send us slowly back up to the top.”

“There, we will have to get out of the shackles before the flames catch up with us,” the Doctor concludes. Not their most difficult performance, but visually impressive.

A few moments later, they are dangling, side-by-side, above the stage. “Chin up,” he mutters. “Start the clock,” he calls, and they begin their descent. They wriggle free, more or less in unison—he has a bit of an edge from his experience, but Clara's been a willing student. Now for the handcuffs, but they're nearly at the bottom. The flamethrowers glow orange; Clara smiles—she loves this bit. They can hear the crowd holding its breath as the cuffs fall away and they reach for the releases.

That's when the flames bellow forth—carefully angled to leave a gap just large enough to hold the two of them—and the shackles rocket up to the top of the tower, empty. 

“You know, I don't think they made it,” the Doctor observes drolly, just as the cheering and confused murmurs fade away. The crowd turns to the rear of the theatre, where he and Clara are standing side-by-side, hand-in-hand.

“Thank you!” they call as they hurtle down the center aisle, hands still joined.

***

 

“We still haven't gone on that date, you know,” Clara points out.

“Yes, boss,” he teases.

As hard as Idris's job was to find them a bank, afterward they have had no shortage of venues clamoring for them, and things have been too hectic to allow for a proper personal life. “I'm getting close,” she'd told Clara.

“To?”

“Vegas, of course.” She'd given Clara a manic grin. “One night only—but you've got competition.”

“Who?”

“Who else?”

And that is how they come to find themselves watching the Mistress perform. 

“Well, at least dinner wasn't work-related,” the Doctor whispers to her. The tandoori had been hot; hotter still had been the foot pressing against his calf. Even he couldn't fail to notice that, he muses. 

“We agreed: we need to see what we're up against,” she reminds him.

“Excuse me,” a female voice cuts in, and the Doctor instinctively pats his pocket for a pen. “Would you mind trading seats with me? My friends are on the other side of you, is all.”

“Of course.” Clara, before the Doctor can properly react, moves to his other side, obliging the young woman, who is wearing a bow-tie. She doesn't think about it again until the show is nearly over, instead evaluating the illusions, one by one. 

“I'm going to need the help of a member of the audience,” the Mistress sing-songs. “Would the young woman in Section D, Row 23, Seat 13 please come up to the stage?”

“That's me!” the girl in the bow-tie gasps, and they stand to let her to the aisle. 

“And that should have been me,” Clara whispers. “Doctor, what are the odds of a coincidence?”

“Clara, I think we should pay very close attention, and be ready to act at a moment's notice.”

The young woman introduces herself as Osgood while the Mistress's assistant, a gangly man named Seb, fits her with a microphone.

“...and just to make sure there isn't any funny business, Ms. Osgood will be watching from within a watertight bubble, inside the tank.” The Mistress is heavily bound as a glass tank wheels onstage. Osgood is ushered into a smaller glass booth within the tank, and the Mistress is helped into a sturdy-looking box, which is then hoisted into the tank. That appears to be the cue for the tank to fill with water, and the immense tank fills with impressive speed, rapidly overtopping box and booth alike. Dye then begins to flood into the tank, swirling through the water.

That's when they see it—a hairline crack snaking up the length of the booth like lightning through a storm cloud. Water starts trickling in around Osgood's boots, which she notices. Seb notices it too, and the Mistress's assistant is clearly nervous.

Clara nudges the Doctor. “I see it.”

“Could be shamming.” Lord knows they've faked their emotions often enough.

“I don't think so,” he says quickly as the crack widens and water begins pouring in, and they begin sprinting to the front. “Is that supposed to happen?” he asks Seb.

“No! And the trapdoor in the booth isn't working either!” The Doctor's coat trails out behind him as he dashes to the rear of the stage while Clara tries to calm a panicking Osgood, just before the booth gives out entirely.

He comes back with the axe for the fire curtain, every ounce of his long frame going into the blows. The glass splinters, gives way. Osgood falls to her knees, sucking in breath; the Mistress is nowhere to be seen.

“Kate Stewart, Scotland Yard,” an authoritative blonde introduces herself. “Are you alright?” she asks, offering Osgood her cardigan.

She nods, and, blessedly, the mike has malfunctioned from the water, because she asks Detective Stewart for dinner.

“Now, what the hell just happened?” Stewart demands. “And someone get this woman a towel.”

They spend the rest of the evening being interviewed; by the time they get home, they are too drained to do anything but go to sleep. 

***

With the Mistress's act indefinitely shuttered thanks to the criminal investigation hanging over her, they win the bid for the slot in Vegas. Neither of them feels good about essentially backing in, and they vow to develop a new illusion just for the occasion. 

“After all,” Clara says, maybe a little too forcefully, “we'll be going to Vegas—your last hurrah.”

“Our last hurrah,” the Doctor corrects absently. “Best make it a good one.”

They sit in silence, letting that reality wash over them. They're at his place this time; she's wearing his black, holey jumper and nothing else. She'll have to move some of her things over here, won't she? “We'll still date...after...right?” Possibilities race through her mind—should she give up her lease? Move in with him? Find a new place together? Will he want children; does she?

“You're the boss,” he attempts to reassure her, her head still swimming. “Of course we will.” He feels it, too—their personal and professional lives have been so entwined. “You know,” he assays, “you wouldn't have to retire. You could keep performing—even take the name Doctor, if you liked.”

She smiles sadly, shaking her head. “It wouldn't be the same.”

“We'll make it good then,” he says, and leans over to kiss her.

“The best,” she says. “You know, I think that's the first time you've kissed me.” He looks at her, bewildered, clearly thinking about last night. “As opposed to the other way around, or both of us together,” she laughs. “Never too late to learn something new.”

***

They've reworked Regeneration into something new that they call 'Bigger on the Inside.' The blue box will open as before, but instead of just them, a legion of miracles will pour out, followed by the rest of the crew, and finally the two of them. It's meant as a curtain call, the wrap-up for their career, an idea which still doesn't feel quite real. Above their heads, smoke is just starting to billow out of the cupboard. 

“This is it, then,” Clara asks, wanting desperately to stretch the moment out into infinity or wish it out of existence.

“I'm afraid so,” the Doctor says stonily. He should be feeling overjoyed—he's gotten what he wanted, after all, a show in Las Vegas, the capstone to a perfectly pleasant career. They can hear the clanking of the army of toy soldiers marching across the stage, followed by the fluttering of doves. He pulls her close. “It's been a second chance for both of us—most people don't get that far.” Has something gone wrong with her eyes?

“Are you two going to be ready to go?” John asks as clowns on stilts pour out of the box.

“We will be,” Clara says, after a short, noiseless consultation. It's time for the crew to start making their appearances—they only have a few more moments.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Doctor begins, out on stage, “I would like to thank you for making a dream of mine come true: to perform in front of a packed house in Las Vegas. In fact, I brought in Ms. Oswald specifically to revive my career so that I could reach this level.”

“And I've been happy to do it, knowing full well that this would be the end of the line.”

“Our last hurrah,” they say in unison. That's when a firework screams out of the now-forgotten box. With the bang, John and Oswin break from the center of the stage, wide grins on their faces, and Clara and the Doctor step out from the cupboard.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” they shout, “to hell with the last hurrah!”

***

“You know, I'm quite impressed with us,” Clara says, tucking herself against the Doctor, fidgeting as they try to get comfortable in the airplane seats.

“We did put on a cracking show,” he agrees contentedly.

“Well, yes.” She presses a kiss to the hand resting gingerly on her shoulder. “I meant that I didn't wind up accidentally pregnant or married to you.”

“Oh?” the Doctor asks, and she can feel his breathing stop, his pulse quicken.

“Bit cliché is all. And I don't think I'd like to lose control of myself to the point where I couldn't remember.”

“Oh,” he repeats, relieved. “In that case, Clara Oswald, will you marry me?” he asks, producing a ring out of thin air.

She gasps. “Oh! Yes, James, of course!” He slips the ring onto her finger and they kiss. Behind them, John grudgingly forks over twenty pounds and looks disgustedly out of the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the Grand Canyon in favor of Oswin's smirk. “I was rather tempted by the chapel where St. Nick would marry you,” he jokes.

“I don't think he was real,” Clara laughs. “Honestly, a fur-trimmed coat? In that heat?”

“You just didn't want to be mistaken for an elf.”

“I look gorgeous in a tunic and tights, so hush,” she commands, and the only noise is the roar of the engines.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this! Have fun counting all the little nods to episodes.


End file.
